


sometimes you get so close to someone you end up on the other side of them

by vechter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Canon-ish, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Jos Verstappen's A+ Parenting, M/M, Multi, and a character study?, as in that it follows real race results, is it really max angst without Jos?, just lestappen interactions and a little bit more, the rest of it should be taken with a grain of salt lmao, this is just angst, to enemies? idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:29:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vechter/pseuds/vechter
Summary: And Charles wonders when exactly did he get into the habit of letting Max Verstappen take his breath away.A character study of Charles and Max through the years; a ficlet of interpersonal moments and interactions from the last few seasons.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Max Verstappen/Daniel Ricciardo (past)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 106





	1. gold

**Author's Note:**

> _your name and a bike-cop grabs it out  
>  of the air and crushes it back to pulp.  
> in them we do not make each other sad  
> with how difficult we think we are to love._  
> \- L. Reeman (I really need to stop fucking my friends)

Golden boy, they say. In the sea of tifosi, he stands like a beacon. Rising, rising, _risen_ \- long promises, longer smiles.

When he was a boy, he would often run out of words. With the roar of the engine in his ears, the car coming alive under his fingertips- humming, screaming, calling out to him- what was there to say? His father used to say, “Charles, one day you will know what to say but nobody will be there to hear it.”

So he learned. He said all the right things, and if it didn’t feel like a perfect fit, if it felt like a square leg in a hole- if he said the wrong thing? He smiled and they would all watch with bated breath, all the while his teeth rotted behind his smiles.

Because ultimately, what his father said didn’t really matter, did it? Charles wasn’t there to hear him say whatever his father wanted to. He never found out if his father knew the right thing. He was fighting, breathing in the Prema red, bringing home a victory to a dead man.

Every year he would win, and every time, the universe would take away something.

It started small- he pushed a blue-eyed boy off the karting track, with the very same arrogance that would make Ferrari fall to their knees one day, and someone stole his favourite toy car.

He had his first love and Jules crashed out. He didn’t know what he was mourning for as he stood there in a church that made him feel anything but holy.

He won the F2 championship and his father succumbed to the illness that had tainted him for as long as Charles could remember. _Papa, I think I might have known what to say. Papa, please could you stay for one more minute, Papa, I don’t like the the way the sky threatens to swallow me up._

He signed with Ferrari and he blinked once, just once, to rest his tired eyes because God, there was so much pressure and how is he supposed to compete with a four time world champion when his team keeps fucking him over and he just wanted a second- one second, please and then Anthoine was gone.

Maybe he should have known better. Better than to fall in love with that firetruck red, better than that immeasurable desire to be the best.

Because he isn’t the best, is he? He’s struggling to stay afloat. They call him messiah, they worship him because they see something in himself that he has forgotten how to see- or maybe it was never there and he was just a stupid boy who fell in love with fast cars. How the hell is he supposed to know?

It hurts to breathe. To fight tooth and nail in a car that should be better- that was promised and fabled and it’s not supposed to be this hard, right? He shouldn’t feel like this.

-x-

Sometimes, Max thinks he has spent his life forcing people to pick him. Pushing and pulling till they have no choice- it’s either with him or against him. There has never been a middle ground.

It’s strange when they do. It’s rare but whenever it happens, it takes his breath away.

His Dad picked him. Even if it was as a prize pony, even when it ended in bruises and barely held back tears, his Dad has always picked him. He spent years- time and effort and money- to get Max to where he is now and maybe it’s fucked up to think of that as a form of love but Max doesn’t care. His Dad picks him. Every day, every time he yells at Max for a missed victory- _too sharp in Turn 8, Max- you should know better than to brake that early, Max- it’s world champion or nothing, Max_ \- every day, his Dad picks him. And for that he thinks he’s something akin to almost grateful.

Red Bull picked him. Gave him room to grow, to learn and crash, to temper that fire in his heart into something icy, into something more precise, into something more deadly.

People don’t always pick him, though. It’s a gut wrenching pain when they don’t. When he’s too impatient or too impulsive or too cold- _too much._ But if he’s being honest with himself? It’s so much more exciting than the alternative.

His Dad is predictable, his team is predictable, his sister will always love him unconditionally. There are few things in life Max Verstappen takes as sureties but it’s impossible not to be sure, here. As long as he keeps delivering, giving them his best, they will pick him. And why wouldn’t Max give them his best?

Except that it’s kind of fucking hard. They’ve branded him as the talent of a generation, and yeah, okay, maybe he is but why did nobody tell him that he would reach 23 and feel this burned out? Why the hell did nobody tell him to slow down, take it all in?

Sometimes, Max wishes he had never won that race in Spain. He remembers the way he felt the walls close in Monaco, or the bitterness 8th place felt in Baku that year. How he has since spent every moment of his life trying to prove that _yes, I am that good_. That Spain wasn’t just luck. That Brazil wasn’t a fluke. Sometimes, Max wishes someone had told him not to win his debut race.

On the other hand, some people don’t give Max the opportunity. They don’t let Max force them into choosing. They leave well before he can do that and maybe, just maybe, that’s a different kind of choice altogether.

-x-

Charles spends the majority of the 2019 season drowning.

When he first sees Max in 2016, Max who is Red Bull’s golden boy, Max, the youngest ever race winner, Max, the first successful Dutch driver, Charles thinks everybody will see the green that was seeping out from his eyes, leaking onto his skin. He doesn’t really get why Max thrives on pissing the media off, why he smiles lesser than anyone else he knows.

It takes him three years to understand why the blue of Max’s eyes is jaded. He finally learns why Max is a creature of new habits- habits he doesn’t recognize. It only takes him two races to understand that life has a really fucking funny way of disguising coping mechanisms.

He’s on the second step in Austria and there is blood rushing in his ears, the sound of his heartbeat traitorous and loud, _God, it’s so loud,_ and Charles thinks he will never forget the way the anger takes over his body, holding him captive.

His first victory feels hollow, feels like a cosmic joke because all he can think of is the hot summer nights with Anthoine, gazing at the stars, when things were a little bit simpler, when things were a little bit better. He can’t remember how to breathe when they call his name out on the podium but he knows he will never forget the way his heart breaks into two, leaving him gasping for breath because _what has he given up to get here_? Nobody told him that winning can be this awful.

Italy is bittersweet because it doesn’t feel tainted the way Spa does. But it’s a different kind of pain because he is drowning, drowning in this sea of red and he tries to remember when winning was all that he needed.

He understands, then, why Max smiles the way he does- dangerous and quick.

-x-

Max should’ve known that forcing Daniel into a choice would never pan out the way he wants. Daniel is too golden to be touched.

Max spends all of 2019 trying.

Trying to bring back the glory Honda so desperately needs. Trying to fight for a championship the way Red Bull needs him- a breath away from losing the title fame of youngest world champion. It’s futile but Max tries. He tries to forget the retirements of the previous season, tries to give his best against a teammate who is too young, too pure, too unseasoned to shoulder the weight of the sky Max has to hold up. Tries to remember that that was him before Daniel eased out the growing pains. Tries not to miss Daniel.

He tries. Austria feels like Max has been swimming underwater and he has finally managed to break free. He can breathe a little easier, then, so Max greedily takes in as many gasps as he can. He sees the anger, the sheer unrestrained rage of Ferrari’s soon-to-be golden boy and Max prays, prays with all his heart that Charles will never have to understand.

It’s pointless because by the time Singapore comes around, Charles has the same sagging shoulders and sharp eyes Max wouldn’t wish upon anyone.

There’s a moment. Their hands reach out before they can stop themselves but Charles feels like he’s been punched in the stomach when he sees that familiar brand of hunger and hurt and heavy in Max’s eyes, and it’s sweltering hot and God, he just wants to go home.

Max doesn’t know hatred the way everybody claims he does because hate is difficult. For him, indifference has always been worse than hate but in that moment, when he sees Charles shouldering the weight of the sky with him, the greens of his eyes reflecting something akin to understanding, Max hates him with all his heart.

Because see, nobody asks to be Atlas.

It’s awkward and their arms are back at their respective sides before it can be more than what it is.

-x-

They play it up for the press. Everybody is hungry and feral and wanting of something else, apart from the domination of the Silver Arrows.

They put them next to each other in press conferences, they fixate on their karting rivalry. It’s only right. _The golden boys of the next decade._

Silverstone is unmissable. A spectacle. Max forgets to miss Daniel because he feels so goddamn alive, weaving in and out of corners- _finally_ , a worthy competitor. Pierre is collapsing from the sheer weight of the expectations and Max has given too much of himself to understand, to manage it by himself. He pushes, brakes hard and there’s a nook in the apex that he can own.

There’s still anger from Austria coiling its tendrils around his heart so Charles fights. He fights and brakes as late as he can, claiming the racing line as fiercely as he can. He fights so hard that for a moment, he forgets about the pressure, the way his heart is sinking in on itself, the way the press just won’t _stop_ and for those few laps, all is right again. 

It’s not winning but it’s pretty damn close.

-x-

“Do you remember Brazil?” Charles asks.

They’re on a bench, separated by press officers because they don’t trust Max and his temper. (Max wonders whether he should be bitter that his whole life has been an exercise in proving himself to people.)

“In 2016?” He responds because he remembers, the way Charles still believed that the universe didn’t hate him altogether. The way envy wrapped him around its finger. The way he had wanted to scream at ending up 16th after that pit stop. How he had fought and _clawed_ his way back to third; how he had spent the entire week after wishing that just this once, he would like to be satisfied with a podium.

“I wanted to be in your shoes so bad,” Charles admits.

“And now that you are? How does it feel?”

They might be rivals on track but Max already knows.

“Like a free-fall.”

Max thinks he hears both their hearts break.

-x-

“Do you miss me?” Daniel asks and Max wishes he could hate him. It would make this so much easier.

“Do _you_ miss me?” He fires back and there’s a flash of recognition in Daniel’s eyes. Game recognizes game, right?

“I asked first.”

Of course you did, Max thinks. He thinks back to a time he knew just how difficult it was, to be Daniel Ricciardo all the fucking time. He wonders if Daniel still feels like that in his new yellow team.

He finds himself answering, his mind sluggish and he doesn’t know if he wants to kiss or punch Daniel when he talks about seeing his face from across a room.

He plays along, knowing the media points he’ll get for joking about the hotel rooms they’ve shared. Sometimes, Max wonders if Daniel looks at Nico the way he looks at Max. Sometimes, Max wonders if there will be ever a point in his life where he’ll not have to force people into choosing to stay.

Daniel laughs and god, he misses that laugh because Pierre’s great but it’s hard not to flinch at the desperation that seems to spill from Pierre.

But then, all too soon, the interview is over.

Daniel makes it look so easy and Max wishes, for the umpteenth time, that he had more control over his own life.

He heads back to his motorhome and throws up the contents of his lunch. He tries to recognize the person that stares back at him in the mirror.

-x-

Charles doesn’t plan on finding Max but he ends up early at Toro Rosso, waiting on Pierre and of course, who should walk out but a certain blue-eyed Dutch boy?

“Fancy seeing you here,” Charles bites, unable to resist.

“No stranger than finding you here,” Max replies but it has none of the fire that characterizes the larger part of the Dutchman’s responses.

Charles frowns.

To be honest, Max doesn’t look that great. He looks pale and there are beads of sweat lining his face despite the freshly washed hair that indicates the shower he has probably just taken.

He stops, expectantly, because Charles was the one who called out to him and is he going to say something or just waste Max’s time?

“I’m just waiting for Pierre.” He doesn’t dare tell Max the words that want to tumble out- that Max drove well today- because he wants to, he really does and like, the safety car was unlucky- ~~_Magnussen is and will always be stupid_~~ \- but something tells him Max won’t be able to hear past the white noise.

“Right,” Max nods and he raises his head in acknowledgement to bid goodbye.

It’s guttural instinct that Charles stops him before his heart can fully register what his body has beat him to.

“Wait.”

And yeah, Max really doesn’t look good. He looks like he’s spilling at the seams.

“What were you doing here?”

And maybe Max wants to respond with something else because there’s a flash of something in his eyes and he stiffens, ready for a fight, but just as quickly, like _I’ve fought enough today_ , he just shrugs and walks away, leaving Charles wondering.

-x-

Japan is terrifying. Hagibis is powerful and fierce and terrifying. The race ends safely despite everything.

But Charles can’t shake off the nightmares or the way his stomach has been turning ever since he signed the Ferrari contract. It’s how he finds himself in the almost empty hotel bar.

“You ruined my race, you know?” A familiar voice says.

Max sits down, a couple of stools away, signalling the bartender.

“I ruined my own race, too, if that makes you feel better,” Charles attempts, watching how Max downs the vodka like its water.

“Keep them coming,” he tells the bartender as he turns towards Charles.

“Does make me feel a little better, if I’m being honest.”

“At least we have the same number of retirements now. Hardly a fair fight for third with you having an extra race.”

That gets a laugh from Max and Charles tries to ignore the way his heart skips a beat at the victory that comes from getting Max Verstappen to laugh.

“Gotta give the press something to talk about,” Max says, downing another neat vodka and Charles can’t help but feel strange at the half-full glass of wine he himself is still nursing.

“You keep drinking like that, and you’ll give them everything to talk about.”

Max laughs again, chugging the third drink in one big gulp but he slows down, ordering a vodka with Red Bull.

 _Of course_. Charles tries not to roll his eyes.

“So you come here often?” Max asks, breaking the silence and was- was that a fucking line? _Is Max Verstappen flirting with him right now?_

“Is that a line?”

Charles wonders if Max can hear the way his heart is beating.

“Depends. Do you want it to be?”

Charles doesn’t know how to respond to that because sometimes, Max is so close and so far away at the same time.

“It’s hard not to think about him when I’m here. When it’s like this,” Charles says, instead.

Max glances at the way the rain is pouring against the windows.

“He was good, you know?” Charles continues because he needs someone to know. He needs someone to understand how much he fucking misses Jules, how much he hates himself for driving a car that should’ve been Jules’s.

“I wish we could have raced against him,” Max replies, softly.

“He was really fucking good,” Charles tries, taking a long sip of his wine because fuck, he’s getting all choked up now. Max has the decency to look away.

When Max finally speaks, there’s a note of something unrecognizable in his voice.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

“What?” Because it’s such a strange time to ask such a question.

“Heaven. Do you believe in it?”

“Sometimes. Do you?” Charles finds himself responding.

“I don’t know, honestly. But I think, I think there’s a place where Jules is proud. Proud to see you achieving, proud to see you out-qualifying a driver like Seb, proud to see you in a Ferrari.”

And dammit, how is he not supposed to cry at that?

Charles takes a minute to compose himself because he may be feeling a lot of things but he refuses to cry in a hotel bar with Max Verstappen, of all people. He doesn’t think he could handle Max _not_ holding it against him. They’re rivals. The golden boys of the decade. Max _should_ hold this against him.

“Why are _you_ here?” Charles doesn’t mean for it to come out accusatory and harsh but it does.

Max notices but he must decide he doesn’t care because he responds to Charles, anyway.

“Rough night.”

It seems like he’s not going to elaborate any further so Charles doesn’t really know what to say.

When Max speaks next, he sounds like he’s really far away.

“I used to think love and picking someone are the same thing. So I forced people to choose- pick or leave. I’m reaping the consequences now.”

Charles isn’t entirely sure what the fuck Max is talking about but he also knows he has never seen Max this way.

“Did you and Dilara break up?” And Charles feels so stupid asking a question that a six year old would ask when Max is clearly looking for some sort of emotional depth.

“Something like that,” Max says, and he sounds like he’s here- present, grounded, again. ~~Cold~~.

“Anyway, see you in Mexico City, Leclerc,” Max says, placing a $100 bill under his half finished drink.

And then he’s gone, just as suddenly as he had appeared.

When Charles goes to sleep that night, he can’t get rid of the feeling that he has somehow disappointed Max.

-x-

He can’t help it.

“How’s Max? Is he fast?”

The question slips out on his stream before he even realizes and he wants to scream at how his brain doesn’t seem to know what appropriate is when it comes to a certain Dutch boy.

-x-

It’s Charles who finds him, this time.

“That should’ve been your win.”

This time, Charles surprises himself, even when those words come out of his mouth and it’s strange because he really does mean it.

Max shrugs, staring straight ahead as Charles takes a seat next to him. The sky is tinged with the last few embers of the sunset. Charles thinks that Max looks like a God in the golden-yellow light of the Mexican sky.

“So you come here often?” Charles tries, again and manages to coax a small smile out of the Dutchman.

“When I’ve fucked up, yeah.”

“At least Red Bull manages to give you pit stops under 6 seconds.”

Max barks out a genuine laugh at that and Charles feels something sweet bloom in his stomach.

“P4 with that shit-show isn’t bad. Especially when they favour Sebastian.”

“He’s the number one dri-,” Charles finds himself reciting, media training kicking in involuntarily.

Max gives him a look and Charles feels his breath catch because Max seems like he’s going to say something that Charles has been _waiting_ to hear from someone, anyone. Say it, say it, say it, Charles wills.

“Right,” he says, instead and Charles wonders if this is payback, if this crushing feeling is what Max felt in that bar in Suzuka.

“Was it gradual? Or was there a defining moment?” Charles finds himself asking.

They may be rivals but that’s why Charles can ask him this. It’s vague and if it was anyone other than Max, he’s sure they wouldn’t know what he’s talking about. But he’s so tired of constantly getting pole positions, of biting his tongue every time someone makes a jab about their fucking engine and honestly, Mattia just needs to get his shit together because Seb’s great, he’s really fucking great but-

“A little bit of both. Baku was the turning point. I apologized because it’s Daniel, you know? But everyone made it seem like I shouldn’t. And then there was Monaco. He got the win and it felt like a full-circle moment. We fucked it up in ’16 so here’s your parting gift- redemption. It was in the works, little moments during debriefs, focusing more on what I needed to get from the car.”

“Do you blame yourself?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Max responds, after the longest pause.

“Maybe he really was running away from a fight.”

“Maybe,” Max says but Charles knows he doesn’t agree.

“So you think that’s what next year will be? Promotion to number one driver, edging Seb out?”

“He’s a four time world champion,” Charles states instead.

“Youngest ever world champion.”

And there’s a wistful bitterness in Max’s voice. That should’ve been him. He could’ve had any team on the paddock, and he chose Red Bull because they wanted him so badly and he just wanted to be in Formula 1, didn’t matter where or how or how much they paid- and now, now he feels stuck, feeling the added pressure of doing _more than better_ than his rookie teammate, of trying to snatch as many podiums as he can because he’s so sick of coming third in the constructors every fucking year.

“Seb’s great, you know,” Charles defends, because loyalty might not go a long way in motorsport but Papa always said that some day, it’ll be dust and ashes and his words will mean nothing to no one. Might as well say something, now.

“Pretty great. Especially when he’s locking up into me,” Max says with a roll of his eyes and Charles can’t help but laugh at that.

“I just know you’re counting down to our next podium together, _baby_ ,” Charles manages and he’s surprising himself even more and more.

Flirting. He’s fucking flirting with Max Verstappen.

“Ah, yes. Can’t wait to look down on you trying to murder me with your eyes.”

And it feels like Max is forcing him into a choice that he isn’t ready to make- let go of the rage and ego and pride from Austria or let go of whatever seems to be blossoming between them. Suddenly, Max’s words from Japan click.

It happens in slow motion, almost, because Max sees Charles’s pupils dilate with understanding and he’s terrified of Charles, of how much and how little he really knows. So, he gets up, brushes dust off his sweat-stained fireproofs, smiles tightly at Charles and he’s gone.

Charles never gets to pick.

-x-

Max wonders where the guy from 2015 is. What he would think of the Max now. The one who was just so thrilled to be racing, finally racing in an actual Formula 1 car, the one who welcomed pressure like an old friend, the one whose shoulders didn’t sag from carrying around years of frustration and heartbreak. Where is he?

-x-

His last podium of the season with Max feels like the beginning of something Charles doesn’t want to name.

4th in his first season with Ferrari, outperforming his team-mate should feel good. But he just feels lost.

He eyes the way Lewis is radiant and confident and so utterly _at home_ on that first step of the podium. It looks like it was built just for him. A king reclaiming what was always his. Charles can’t remember the last time he felt comfortable in his own skin and he wonders if Lewis ever has that- if Lewis ever feels like the world is pressing in on all sides.

And he doesn’t get time to think about it any more because Max is spraying him with the fake champagne, then and he wonders if the press will eat this up- the way Max is smiling right now, letting Charles drown him, the way they fought for second today under the Abu Dhabi night sky.

It’s almost Shakespearean, Charles muses.

-x-

One hour before the clock turns to 12, Charles is drunk. Not very. But enough. Enough to be flirting- no, talking to a girl who is very much not his girlfriend.

New Year’s Eve in Monaco is always a grand time. The alcohol is unending, the girls are pretty, the boys are prettier and there’s glitter everywhere.

Thirty minutes to go and Charles is dancing with a girl friend, a safe distance, enough for the watching eyes to not tattle to Charlotte. It’s ridiculous, honestly. He doesn’t think he has been single in a very long time.

Charles falls in love easily. Mo at the cafe near his apartment. Pierre when he claimed his maiden podium. Giada before she fell for him. It’s a lot harder to _stay_ in love, though.

One minute to go and the girl has her mouth wrapped around Charles’s cock.

~~Five.~~

He’s so close and he feels so fucking free, and in the semi-darkness of the club bathroom, he feels invincible.

~~Four.~~

She gags and he tries to focus on how good her mouth feels.

~~Three.~~

There’s a vague smell of disinfectant that hasn’t stopped tickling Charles’s nose since they entered the bathroom, a crash-fall of desperate limbs.

~~Two.~~

He hears the screams of the clubbers counting down and it’s not like he times it, because he’s not that cocky, not really, but of course, he is-

 _One_.

He finishes in her mouth with a drawn out groan and as she’s swallowing it down,

“Happy new year.”

Nobody responds as his voice echoes in the empty bathroom, and he thinks he might have loneliness on speed dial.

-x-

It’s not surprising- not really- that they end up at the same party. Monaco is a tiny place but it claims them back. It feels good to be wanted, Max thinks.

“You look like you’re having a great time,” he greets Charles, who looks forlorn and miserable as he leans out over the balcony.

“Not as much as you,” he says and if there’s envy in his voice, Max pretends not to notice it.

“I’m good at faking it,” Max tells him.

“You’re a very good actor, then.”

“Are you okay?” Because he really can’t help himself sometimes. Max thinks back to the hollowness that followed him after Malaysia, how he felt like the loneliest person in the world, waking up to an empty hotel room, how Vic made him come out to see her because she could hear the way his mind was running a million miles an hour over the phone.

“Been better.”

Max looks at him. Like really looks at him. There are bags under his eyes and there’s a certain slump to his shoulders. If he were a better person, he would try to nurture his empathy into something more solid. But he’s not, not really.

“Going home helps.”  
  
Charles looks up at him in surprise.

“That’s a little rude, considering it isn’t even your party.”

“No, idiot, I meant like going home to your family. Spending time with them. It helps.”

He thinks back to the time he showed up, drenched in rain, to his father’s house because he just _needed_ someone to tell him what to do after the mess he made in Monza in ’17; how he should’ve thought a little bit harder before acting that impulsively because he spent two whole days recovering from the way his father berated him. World champions don’t keep crashing into other drivers.

“Sometimes,” he adds, then. An afterthought of caution.

“Oh. Helps with what exactly?”

“Being Ferrari’s prince.”

Charles snorts at that.

“What does that make you, then?”

“Whatever you need me to be.”

And Charles wonders when exactly did he get into the habit of letting Max Verstappen take his breath away.

-x-

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> helloooo, this is sort of my first attempt at published work so I would love any thoughts you guys have. it's a little all over the place but I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. lots of love <3


	2. baku

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baku, through the years  
> or  
> The four times they feel the weight of the sky on their shoulders + the one time Max and Charles share it

**Baku, 2017**

_**Charles** _

There’s a ringing in his ears. It doesn’t stop, not when he’s pushing through the brutality of turn 8, not when he gets pole, not when he finds himself on the podium.

He watches himself get sprayed with champagne, being interviewed on what this win really means to him and he’s an impostor in his own body- going through the motions.

It’s a tricky circuit and he struggles all through practice. It’s so hard to push down the dam inside his chest that feels like it will burst if Charles so much as blinks. But he finds his groove, gets pole by an excellent margin and then he’s pulling away from the others in the feature race.

When Antonio crashes, Charles has to remind himself that the new cars are the safest they’ve been in years and he needs to focus on his own race and not every moment in his life will be a tragedy.

Charles tries not to think about the crash that will inevitably come once the adrenaline wears off, once he has time to sit and think during the two weeks before Austria. He tries not to think about the month he spent in and out of the hospital, a victim to panic-induced powerlessness, watching his family say goodbyes. How he wanted to scream that _no, it’s too soon, he’s not leaving us yet, I’m only 19, please, please, please._

So, instead, he sets fastest lap after fastest lap and he tells himself that he’s not running away even though it feels strangely close to that. _He’s winning._ Just as Papa would’ve wanted. Just as Papa believes- no, believed- he could.

He’s going to do his father proud. Get into Formula 1 like he had told Papa. Fight his way to Ferrari, even if he has to claw his way out of the ground.

The ringing never stops.

_**Max** _

Max tries really, really hard not to scream. It’s his fourth retirement in twice as many races and okay, fine, Spain was on him but how is he supposed to be youngest world champion when his car keeps giving out from under him?

Oil leak. _Fuck this_.

It stings even more when Daniel wins. It’s not like Australian doesn’t deserve it because he drove a stellar race. Max can acknowledge that; he knows how hard it is to keep your head down when the pitstop demotes you to the back of the grid.

He hears everybody talking about Daniel during the red flag and it takes a practiced kind of patience not to punch the wall when he realizes his team-mate could win.

He almost laughs when Lewis’s head-rest comes loose. With Seb’s penalty, this race is Daniel’s to fuck up. He doesn’t, of course. He comes away, smiling and getting Red Bull’s first win of the season, and the universe must really, really hate Max.

Daniel looks _perfect_ on the podium, his fourth of the season, as opposed to Max’s same number of retirements.

It really shouldn’t come as a surprise that they crash out the next year.

Max thinks that lately, racing has just been an exercise in relearning the bitterness he has spent the better part of his life trying to escape.

**Baku, 2018**

_**Charles** _

It’s strange.

Charles had told Papa that he was going to be driving Formula 1 with such conviction and bravado that he had almost fooled himself into believing the lie was a certainty.

But he’s here, now.

It doesn’t matter that his teammate has already scored in the top 10 and Charles feels like he’s made a really big mistake being here, driving that number 16 car. It doesn’t matter that China was as bad as it can get and that he’s kind of having a really hard fucking time reconciling being at the very back after being at the top in Formula 2 for so long.

He’s here.

He made it.

-x-

Later, once the rush from the race has worn off and he’s back in the comfort of his motorhome, Charles thinks it’s only fitting that he scores his first ever set of points here in Azerbaijan. Not a measly P9 or P10, either.

P6.

8 whole Formula 1 points to his name.

It doesn’t hurt that Marcus finished outside the points, either.

Charles thinks that if he can feel like this after each race, he will never stop getting inside the car.

He dreams of the Ferrari red, that’s surely his if he can keep doing this throughout the year. He quiets the voice in his head that tells him the seat should belong to Jules. He refuses to let his ghosts ruin his first ever set of points. And so what if that result is only because Max decided that he would rather ruin both his teammate and his own races rather than be passed by him?

“To many more,” the Sauber boys cheer as they celebrate- they’re celebrating _him_ \- in a makeshift party in the garage and Charles feels like he’s drunk on happiness.

It feels like the beginning of something unnameable.

He doesn’t know that exactly a year from now, he will finish P5 in this very circuit, while his teammate will celebrate yet another stolen podium and Charles will feel hollow. There is nobody to warn him.

_Not yet, anyway._

_**Max** _

He knows it’s his fault. He knows that.

If he knew that come summer break, Daniel will be telling him that he’s leaving, Max likes to think that he would take Baku back in a heartbeat.

It’s just hard. He doesn’t want to be where he was last season- having more retirements than podiums, having to force happiness for his team and teammate’s successes only to realize he doesn’t remember what real happiness feels like, let alone force it.

After the way Bahrain ended, Max is so, so terrified that he’s doomed to have a car that’s a shit-box and then, he’s never going to be world champion and what’s the point of all this if he can’t prove that he’s the best?

Baku hurts in a way that Max isn’t used to because throughout the last season, it was never him letting people down- it was always the car. Yes, he could’ve done better because Max knows what he’s capable of and it’s stupid to aim for perfection but he does it anyway; but he has never felt like this- disappointing so many people the way he has.

Max thought he had a monopoly on disappointment but as he watches Daniel out of the corner of his eye in the post-race press conference, Max remembers that Daniel has known disappointment like an old friend. And _that_ hurts Max more than he cares to admit.

-x-

When he finally heads back to his room, he’s exhausted. He knows he shouldn’t but he spends a good one hour going through fan comments about the crash and it’s not surprising, not really that they blame him. It’s his own personal form of masochism to see how much everybody loves the Australian, how they find him, Max, too aggressive, too harsh, too cold.

(Max welcomes bitterness because he’s always just _too much_ , isn’t he?)

If Daniel gets disappointment, Max thinks he could write a lifetime on bitterness.

He knows how easy it is to fall in love with Daniel, how it feels personal when Daniel is wronged, how wonderful it is to get to know him. He remembers how much his heart hurt in Monaco two years back and he wonders then, if this is what love is.

So when Daniel knocks on his door, showing up with a bottle of whiskey, Max lets him in wordlessly.

They end up drunk, despite the flight that they have to take back to Monaco in a few hours. He apologizes, a more sincere and shameful one, now that the rush has worn off and tries to ignore his heartbeat when he sees the same shame shining in his teammate’s eyes.

Somewhere along the halfway mark of the bottle, Max finds himself telling Daniel how much it can hurt being Max Verstappen. How much it _does_ hurt.

So, they drink more. They order more alcohol through room service and by 11 pm, it’s a wonder Max can still twist his tongue around to form half-coherent words.

 _Well done, Baku_.

They’ve lapsed into silence now and Max wonders if tomorrow, he will regret letting Daniel in.

And then, in the haziness of the hotel room, littered with the remnants of Max’s broken apology, Daniel says something so heartbreaking that Max has to stop and remember how to breathe.

“They want to burn you to the ground.”

“Mate, you’re drunk,” Max exclaims instead of telling Daniel that he needs to _shut up, shut up, shut up_ \- keeping his tone light and level but-

There’s a deafening roar in Max’s ears and he doesn’t know if its the alcohol or the shame from that god-awful crash or being this close to something- _no, someone_ \- he wants or maybe its an amalgamation of all the stunning unravelling of his machinery but Max thinks that if there is a God, he has all but left Max to his own devices.

Daniel seems to decide he’s not happy enough with shutting up though, because he closes the distance between them and presses a drunken kiss against Max’s lips.

His brain doesn’t short-circuit like he thought it would, like he imagined it would because _he’s wanted this for so long_ , now and Daniel smells like the Le Labo perfume that Max hates himself for getting used to and his lips are soft as they move against Max’s but then-

Then, why does Max feel like someone is ripping his heart out of his chest?

“Daniel, we’re drunk,” he says softly, pulling away, and fuck, it hurts, it hurts so much because this is what he wanted-

Daniel nods- simple and uncomplicated. It frustrates Max how easy this is for Daniel. Or maybe it’s not but Daniel has been doing it for much longer than Max has, so maybe he’s just better at pretending.

If Max didn’t love Daniel so much, he would hate him.

“It’s so easy being Daniel fucking Ricciardo, isn’t it?” he snarls and he hates himself for it, because his chest is caving in on itself, because he knows better, because he is _not_ his father.

He would take anything to take that back, to take all of Azerbaijan back, to never see this look on Daniel’s face again- anything not to be the one who caused it.

“ _Max_.” A warning.

It’s like the world tilts, like its waiting with bated breath for the onslaught and the eventual crash.

“You should get going. I need to pack,” Max hears himself say the words but he feels like it’s a stranger in his body saying them because why, oh why is Max not letting himself have this?

The Australian is nowhere sober enough to mask the hurt and it glitters on his face as Max finally comes to his senses, only to choke out, _“I can’t.”_

Daniel nods in painful understanding and Max goes to sleep on the flight back, wishing he could hate Daniel as much as he hates himself.

**Baku, 2019**

_**Charles** _

He kills practice. Like really, seriously dominates it. He’s the favourite for pole and it really feels appropriate to fit his career arc at Azerbaijan.

Until he fucks it up monumentally.

As he tells his engineer how stupid he is, he can’t help but think back to last year when he had laughed at the foolishness of the Red Bull boys, especially that of a particular Dutch.

He thinks he might understand now, why Max fights so dirty sometimes.

When he walks back into the garage, it feel like everybody wants to ask him what the fuck he’s doing there, that they’re doubting his place here.

They don’t but Charles has always been his own biggest critic.

It could be worse because he still manages to start 8th on the grid and overtaking Perez is easy.

They fuck him over.

They keep him out too long and okay, fine, he’s on the mediums and Seb was on the softs and his start could’ve been better and Max didn’t fight him at all when Charles overtook him but it stings. He’s lost too much time.

He steals the fastest lap and for a hot second, it’s like he’s back in F2, racing to keep the emotions at bay by pushing as hard as he can, biding his time till the eventual crash from the adrenaline fuelled frenzy makes him fall to his knees.

Seb ends up on the podium and Charles wishes he didn’t have to try so hard not to be bitter about it.

It hurts to think back to when he had scored his first points here and he was still hopeful, still yearning for the Ferrari red.

Is this getting what you want really feels like?

_**Max** _

This should feel like redemption.

He qualifies fourth and finishes fourth. It’s an uneventful race for him, personally and after the shit show last year, Max will admit that he breathes a sigh of relief at that.

If it still hurts a little, Max ignores it altogether.

He’s heading out of the TV pen after the race when he sees the replay of Charles’s crash in Q2. The press is _still_ having a field day with the Monégasque’s defeated _I am stupid_ and Max wishes someone would tell Charles that he can’t do that, shouldn’t do that.

It’s one thing to be hard on yourself but it’s another when you leave the door wide open to let people draw blood like that.

“It was a good result,” he tells Charles, later, when they somehow find themselves away from all the blood and thirst and hurt. Pierre is walking alongside them but he’s too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

“Could have been better.”

“It always can, though,” Max points out and somewhere, his heart breaks a little for the two of them- they’re just boys and maybe, just _maybe,_ perfection is overrated.

They reach the Red Bull motorcade and Pierre goes inside without as much as a goodbye and Max wonders if this is what the rest of the season will be- picking up everybody’s pieces as he falls apart himself.

“He just needs one good result. He’s good, you know,” Charles defends.

“I know. The car is just not very great,” Max responds because he knows Pierre, has _known him_ and in another world where Daniel didn’t leave him- _no, the team_ \- he thinks he could have loved Pierre.

“You do alright, though.”

“I’ve been driving it for longer.”

“I just want to go home and forget it all,” Charles sighs, the voice hollow and eyes emptier.

“You did fine. Managed to nick fastest lap, too.”

“At least Mercedes don’t get the one extra point,” Charles mutters darkly and Max can’t help but chuckle.

Charles doesn’t leave immediately and Max doesn’t head inside the garage either- it feels good, comforting almost, to stand under the huge sky with Charles.

“They always look for places where it hurts the most,” Charles says, finally because they may be just be 21 years old and Max might have been doing this for four years now but Charles is learning- growing into it quicker than anyone would want, perhaps.

Max is overwhelmed by the urge to protect the boy next to him and he wonders what life feels like for those who didn’t have to grow up so quickly.

“They want to burn us to the ground,” Max says, his voice cracking, slightly. It's as much a warning as it is the truth.

Charles takes in a long, shaky breath at that and Max thinks back to last year when Daniel told him that and how Max felt like he was being swallowed up whole.

The Ferrari driver looks up at Max, his face hardening but Max can see his eyes shining with unshed tears.

His voice is harder when he tells Max, “I know.”

 _I know_.

And what the hell is Max supposed to say to that? 

-x-

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is primarily inspired by a line in another lestappen fic I read, coupled with the realization that Baku '17 and Baku '18 were really important events for Charles and Max, respectively:
> 
> _Baku sure was a strange place for Max. ___
> 
> _  
> _https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599459_  
> _
> 
> _  
> _I'm linking it here because it's so well written and I hope the author can see this one day because I really did love that fic, it made me cry and feel so many things (shoutout to mandzilkos!)_  
> _
> 
> _  
> _please do leave feedback!! I know this isn't very lestappen centric in terms of their interactions but I think I just had to write it this way and I hope you guys caught the whole atlas/sky bit from the first chapter_  
> _
> 
> _  
> _also turned out way more coherent in terms of structure and chronology than last time :)__  
> 


	3. comfortable silence is so overrated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Charles just can't stay away from each other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comfortable silence is so overrated  
> Why won't you ever be the first one to break?  
> \- Harry Styles (From the Dining Table)

**Post-race press conference, Austria, 2019**

He leaves the podium as quickly as he came. His press officer tries to placate him as they head to the post-race conference and Charles feels paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of his own anger.

He sees the Max Verstappen grandstand, all the fans decked out in that nasty orange and Charles has never hated a colour more. How unfitting. Orange is warm sunsets and sticky lollies in Monte Carlo. Max, on the other hand? Charles doesn’t know what Max is but the way he makes Charles feel is nothing like the orange that burns bright in his peripheral vision.

They ask him how it feels to be robbed of yet another podium but this one hurts more than the others- this was his victory until Max decided he didn’t want to play nice anymore.

Max is answering some stupid fucking question about Honda- _god, will he shut up and stop pretending like his victory is anything meaningful at all_ \- and he can only see red. Red is supposed to be _his_ and he hates the way Max has tainted it.

Then they’re asking him about strategy and Charles wants to yell how his team is so fucking incompetent when it comes to planning and if it weren’t for Seb, Charles is sure they wouldn’t have half their podiums. But he has always known how to play the press. He learned it very early on and words have consequences- _if someone’s even around to hear them_ , Charles thinks bitterly- and this time is no different.

“We didn’t stop because my softs were dead but we stopped because Valtteri stopped and we had to protect him,” he stumbles and red-hot shame bubbles up in the pit of his stomach. “Protect from him,” he rectifies and he doesn’t miss the pointed way Max looks everywhere but at him.

He paints a small smile at his error and it might not be the focal point in the cacophony of all his emotions but he hates Max for it with an irrationality that he doesn’t understand.

Finally, when the reporters tire of the clipped answers he has been giving, when they realize how Max hasn’t let a smile stay on his face for longer than a nanosecond, how they’re not going to be able to change that, they’re free to leave and because fate is a funny cruelty, he finds himself walking alongside the Dutchman.

Max looks like he’s on a precipice and maybe, Charles has a bigger heart than he gives himself credit for because he finds himself reciting Max’s own words back to him.

“They want to burn us to the ground,” Charles breaks the all-powerful silence and despite the softness of his inflection, he watches Max’s face fall a little.

“Let’s not give them the satisfaction, then,” the Red Bull driver responds, but it’s a beat too late and despite it all, Charles looks at him, finally, staring him in the eye and the anger seems to dissipate into something weaker, a mere shadow of its former self because he realizes, that in some fucked up way, Max has been trying to protect him.

But Charles has never had the privilege of protection _(the universe made sure of that_ ) and Charles refuses for his supposed arch-nemesis to be the one to come around and change that.

So he turns his back to Max, trying not to drown in the red that’s always threatening to consume him.

-x-

Sometimes, Max wishes he knew how to play the long game better.

The press conference is awful. It’s awkward and there’s a quiet sort of rage in Max’s heart. Charles’s anger, on the other hand, threatens to eat everyone alive.

He’s torn between wanting to Charles to understand that hard racing or not, sometimes victory comes at a cost and sometimes, the pressure that comes with being a young, gifted driver is so much that it takes _everything_ from Max to not buckle under it.

But even as he tells the reporters about the big win it is for Honda, he bites down the words about how the Orange army makes him feel more terrified than loved. How seeing them rise unanimously makes bile rise at back of his throat. _Do well or lose us_.

“We didn’t stop because my softs were dead but we stopped because Valtteri stopped and we had to protect him,” Charles is answering but he has stumbled. “Protect from him,” he amends and Max wonders if he’s a bad person for being powerless to the vicious pleasure that curls up in his bones at the fissure in the Monégasque’s perfection.

The reporters finally get sick of the careful, muted responses and the uncomfortable energy crackling in the room because the press conference ends sooner than usual and Max gets up to leave, heading in the same direction as Charles who all but bolts out of the room.

Somehow, they still end up walking side by side and the silence is heavy, worse than the one that consumed the cool-down room.

It twists at Max’s stomach but he has always been good at biting his tongue when it counts. So, when Charles repeats those words back from Baku, the same ones that make Max want to keel over and ask whatever God there is- _stop, please, just for a second, let me take it all in_ -

“They want to burn us to the ground,” Charles says, his voice sombre.

“Let’s not give them the satisfaction, then,” Max finds himself replying and he has to remind himself how fragile his heart is when Charles doesn’t say more, but turns to head to the Ferrari motorhome instead and-

Max wonders whether Charles would pick him, if given the choice.

**Post-race, Silverstone, 2019** ****

**_"I think he was a little bit sore still from Austria so he was defending really hard, but it's fine, I'm all for that.”_ **

Charles reads the interview snippet again and he doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh at the ridiculous antics of this Dutch boy or kiss him so hard that he draws blood.

So when he comes across him in the paddock, because a race weekend _never_ ends when the race ends, Charles is unable to stop himself.

“Will you ever stop talking about me?”

Max looks like he has been caught off-guard and there is something about the way his eyes are set- cold and unfocused and shimmering, that bothers Charles more than he wants to care.

“What do you mean?” He turns in his tracks, not making a move to give this interaction his full attention and it infuriates Charles that the Dutchman think this conversation isn’t worthy of more.

“I think he was a little bit sore from Austria?” Charles mocks, and Charles doesn’t know why he insists on bringing another fight to the Red Bull driver- it seems like he has enough of them to go around, if his body language is any indication.

“Weren’t you?” Max asks pointedly and this time, he does turn around completely. Charles notices the beginnings of a bruise around Max’s arm, from where his fireproof sleeve has been pulled down haphazardly.

“Who are you to say anything about it?” He continues but the rush from before is lost. There is a story that seems to be fitting in together but Charles doesn’t want to write it out. Suddenly, he feels like shit.

“Someone asked me and I answered honestly. If you’re looking for a fight, I’m not your guy, Charles,” Max sighs, making a move to head the way he was going- a direction that is definitely not where the Red Bull garage is.

“You weren’t this guy on track,” Charles says, softly.

He regrets it because he sees Max’s defences rise immediately. It’s sort of breath-taking in a way because this is the same instinct, the same speed that make Max the phenomenal driver that he is.

“It was a long race,” Max’s answer is short and clipped.

“I’ve never known you to shy away from a fight with me, though.”

“I think we fought enough today.” There’s a finality in Max’s tone that Charles doesn’t want to push, no matter how addictive the rush is. But Charles is no saint.

_“Max.”_

-x-

The Monégasque says his name like a prayer, like it’s something to be revered- sacred, almost and it hurts. It hurts like his hell because he’s saying _so much_ with this one syllable and-

“I don’t know what you want from me,” and even to his own ears, Max knows that he sounds dangerously close to tears.

“Tell me you’re okay.”

Max wonders if lying to your designated arch-rival is as much of a cardinal sin as it feels like right now.

“I’m okay.”

He sees the red-clad driver hold himself back from rolling his eyes.

“Try again.”

The British sky is still alight with heat and dust and Max just wants to get out of Silverstone, as soon as he can.

Away from all of this.

He misses being able to go to Daniel’s room after his father loses his temper or berates him for fucking up a start and gets carried away because even when Daniel didn’t know, he was always a solid, grounding presence. He wonders what life would be like if he didn’t join Red Bull, if he wasn’t surrounded by people like Dr. Marko and his Dad. And then he tells his brain to shut up.

“I just want to go home, yeah?”

He watches Charles’s features soften and Max hates it; he hates the attention he’s getting, the same attention he’s greedily lapping up more than often, he hates that somehow, Charles and him ended up being entangled this way- close but never enough.

“When do you leave for Monaco?”

“In an hour. You?”

“About the same,” Charles pauses, unsure but he must see the way Max is holding himself up- all bones and hurt because he continues, in a voice that’s half steel, half heart, “It’s going to be okay.”

Max nods, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak right now- not like this- and they bid goodbye.

On the flight back, he wonders how often Charles has said that, how much he wants someone to just gather all the pieces ( _and maybe it was supposed to be Charles, all along_ ) and ultimately, it’s this thought that‘s running through his mind as he falls asleep.

-x-

 ** _So you might have been onto something,_** reads a message from Charles.

Attached to it is a video compilation of their on-track battle.

Max smiles as he finds himself composing a reply.

Maybe, it really is going to be okay.

**Post-FP1, Portimao, 2020**

“It’s not as satisfying as you thought it would be, right?”

Charles is sitting far away from the noise of the Ferrari garage when Max claims the empty space on the pavement next to him.

“Not even close.”

“He’ll come back. He fell off like this when Daniel joined Red Bull, too.”

Charles wonders how Max always seems to know what’s going on in his head, sometimes even before Charles knows it himself.

“And what if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll retire as a used-to-be. One of the greater ones.”

Charles doesn’t have the courage to raise the question that has haunted him every day of this exhausting year.

_What if that’s me?_

Somewhere, Charles thinks Max knows, anyway because he finds the Dutchman’s fingers intertwining with his own.

In another life, Seb is world champion in 2017 and Charles doesn’t feel like the world is constantly taking and _taking_ from Charles, when all he can do is sit and watch on the sidelines.

“It’s going to be okay,” Max murmurs, sparking off shock-waves because they _get_ each other, they _know_ each other.

Charles wonders if Max is saying it for Charles or for himself. But he rests his head on the Dutch boy’s shoulder, all the same.

In another life, it doesn’t matter.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk what this is but it's partly fuelled by Charles's radio after Romain's crash, partly fuelled by exhaustion and almost wholly by the fact that these drivers are incredible with the risks they take and I feel like we take that for granted


	4. atlas cried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The turning point  
> or  
> Suzuka, mostly from Max's pov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cry on his shoulder 'cause life is hard  
> The waves came in over my head  
> What you been up to, my baby?  
> I haven't seen you 'round here lately  
> \- Lana Del Rey (How to disappear)

**Suzuka, 2019**

He’s fuming.

But with Vicky at his side, who knows him well enough to deal with his moods, who knows exactly what she has to say to get Max into PR mode, he manages to talk about how good his start was, manages to be a little more objective, even manages to crack a smile.

But then he hears about Charles’s interview with Lawrence and Max feels dangerously close to punching something- no, someone- preferably that idiotic Ferrari driver.

**_“You never want to crash. I’m pretty sure Max don’t want to crash and I don’t want, either. But yeah, it happened that way, it went that way today.”_ **

Fucking idiot.

-x-

Charles looks for Max but the TV pen is crawling with reporters and drivers alike. Max probably left as soon as he could.

He wishes he could put into words, not the media-trained words he has been taught to speak ever since he could remember, but his _own_ words- the words Papa would’ve liked to hear from him, just how shitty he feels. He knows he was reckless on track, today. Hard racing or not, Suzuka always brings out the worst in him and sometimes, he wishes the track wasn’t on the calendar.

And then as the universe would have it, he sees Max, beautiful- and maybe because Charles deserves it- alone. He’s speaking quietly on the phone and as Charles nears him, he sees the ill-contained rage, how Max’s fingers are shaking as he spits something in rapid-fire Dutch into his phone.

Max looks up at the sound of Charles’s race boots slapping on the concrete and Charles wishes he could explain, just how awful he feels about all of it, how it feels like the universe is crushing his chest. But Charles has never been good with words and God, how he wishes he was because Max, in his Red Bull t-shirt, the silver of his Cartier bracelet shining against his pale wrist, his blue eyes alight with rage- _rage that’s directed at him_ \- makes Charles want to stop in his tracks and weep. The Dutchman is deadly and beautiful and in this moment, he’s evoking an emotion in Charles that he doesn’t have a name for.

Max looks away, going back to talking on the phone, dismissing Charles’s hesitant steps in his direction but Charles is a sell-out for pain, which is imminent, so he soldiers on, until he’s barely a meter away from the other driver.

He takes in a deep breath, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to say- _what could he even say,_ it’s not like he can fix it- but sorry seems like a good place to start.

“Max, I’m so-”

“Shut up,” Max snaps.

Yeah, fair enough.

-x-

When Max heads down to the hotel bar, exhausted from fighting on-track, fighting off-track, _constantly fucking fighting_ , he wishes he could say he’s surprised to see the Monégasque nursing a glass of red wine.

“You ruined my race, you know,” he says, against his better judgement.

“I ruined my own race, too, if that makes you feel better,” Charles responds and it’s feeble- Charles sounds like he’s a million miles away. Something shifts when Charles says that- there’s a tenderness to his voice that pulls at Max’s heartstrings but it’s nothing compared to the sting of the vodka shot Max has just downed.

He needs more. _More_.

“Keep them coming,” he tells the bartender, and there will be hell to pay but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

“Does make me feel a little better, if I’m being honest,” he finds himself quipping and he’s really not even angry anymore. It’s funny how different he can be when the adrenaline has worn off.

“At least we have the same number of retirements now. Hardly a fair fight for third with you having an extra race.”

Max laughs at that, because sometimes he forgets Charles is wholly not the media prince he portrays himself to be. He’s just as venomous as Max.

“Gotta give the press something to talk about,” Max hears the edge in his voice but Charles doesn’t pick up on it.

The bartender places another shot on the bar top and Max scarfs it down, feeling the sting less and less.

The first drink is always the best, Max thinks.

“You keep drinking like that, and you’ll give them everything to talk about.”

It’s not like they won’t talk about him, otherwise. If Charles is the press darling, with his tragedy and soft smile, Max thinks he might be the anti-hero. Middle fingers and hard lines.

All the same, he chugs down the shot and orders a vodka with Red Bull instead. Sue him. You stick around something long enough, it’s impossible not to like it.

And then, because Charles looks like he’s shattering into pieces right in front of him,

“So you come here often?”

It’s one thing to be drinking with Charles non-voluntarily but it’s another to be flirting with him voluntarily. Although, Max thinks, it’s almost worth it to see Charles’s features marred with surprise; the Monégasque really does know how to play up his angles.

“Is that a line?”

_Hook, line, sinker._

But then, Max isn’t the hero _for a reason._

“Depends. Do you want it to be?”

When Charles answers, Max isn’t sure what the fuck he’s signing up for, but it’s about Jules, that much he knows.

“It’s hard not to think about him when I’m here. When it’s like this.”

That’s not surprising. He remembers Daniel showing up drunk to his house in Monaco after their double podium in ’17 and how all through rubbing his back as Daniel had retched- the alcohol and the memories- Max had thought that they’re all too young to have to know loss like this.

“He was good, you know?”

“I wish we could have raced against him.”

_“He was really fucking good.”_

Max doesn’t doubt that for a second. That Ferrari seat was meant to be his. _Jules was good._ Max wonders, then, how haunted Charles feels.

The Ferrari driver looks this close to tears so Max looks away. He can do Charles on track, elbows out, giving him no room, or even Charles in press conferences, where he has to stop himself from scoffing at the falsehood of it all, where there are a few honest moments that leak from the Monégasque’s cleverly constructed armour, the chinks Max makes it a personal target to find but an angelic, distraught Charles?

Charles, with tears in his eyes, heart in his hands? It’s a sight Max never learned to be prepared for.

All the same, he thinks he knows what the young driver next to him needs to hear.

“Do you believe in heaven?”

“What?”

“Heaven. Do you believe in it?”

“Sometimes. Do you?”

Max thinks that if there is a God, he left Max long ago. And why wouldn’t he? Max can be ruthless, _so close_ to being his father. But this isn’t about Max.

He picks his next words carefully.

“I don’t know, honestly. But I think, I think there’s a place where Jules is proud. Proud to see you achieving, proud to see you out-qualifying a driver like Seb, proud to see you in a Ferrari.”

He looks away, then because he doesn’t think- no, he knows- that he can handle how raw he feels, how raw Charles looks.

“Why are _you_ here?”

There’s an unmistakeable edge to Charles’s voice but Max doesn’t mind. If tragedy is all Charles seems to know, Max thinks he has known defence mechanisms even before he ever stepped foot in a kart.

“Rough night,” he finds himself answering, and then he wonders if he could, should say more.

He thinks back to his argument with his Dad, how Dilara hasn’t gotten off his back since Austria, how much he fucking hates not talking to Daniel about all of it, how much he needs Vic to pick up his pieces, how all of this is ultimately his fault.

“I used to think love and picking someone are the same thing. So I forced people to choose- pick or leave. I’m reaping the consequences now,” because fuck it. Charles opened up to him, what’s the harm in doing the same, right?

“Did you and Dilara break up?”

And Max feels like someone splashed a bucket of cold water all over him. He feels sick at how badly this has played out, how he has spent this whole year picking up after everyone, gluing them back together but no one seems to be able to do the same for him.

“Something like that,” he answers, instead because what’s the point in talking about this anymore? Max isn’t going to get what he needs, here.

It’s odd. There’s no anger, no sort of righteousness at how much Charles has failed him today, not even hurt- just, just this strange feeling coiling in his stomach, and what’s that? _Disappointment_.

He’s disappointed.

What a joke.

He wants to go home. Maybe Vicky can get his flight pushed back. He pulls out a bill from his pocket, because he really doesn’t want to be here any more, now, not when this disappointment is choking him.

“Anyway, see you in Mexico City, Leclerc,” and he can hear how tight his voice is, but he doesn’t care. He wants to get out of here.

Maybe, tomorrow, he’ll go visit Dilara, surprise her, tell her about the voices in his head.

Probably not, though.

-x-

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bitch, the lestappen content from the pre race ziggo interview with Charles, I give and give and now FINALLY I RECEIVE. otherwise tho, idk what the fuck this chapter is, I didnt even edit or proofread, I'll probably delete it later on because I just couldn't capture the energy I wanted for it but I feel just as unhappy as these two boys today :/


	5. crash into you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> paris is always showing its teeth; when it's not snarling, it's laughing  
> or  
> the beginning of the end

**Abu Dhabi, 2019**

“Knew it would only be a matter of time before we’re on the podium together.”

“Yeah?” Max asks, looking incredible as he towels off the Abu Dhabi heat from his face. Charles tries not to stare.

“You just can’t stay away from me, can you?” Charles asks, feeling more courageous than he has in a _very_ long time. Doesn’t matter that he’s trying to forget how he feels like his skin is crawling, how he’s emerald, green, so so jealous of how Lewis claims each win like it was made just for him, how the adrenaline is still buzzing through his body.

It’s like Max _knows_.

“Does that keep you up at night? Imagining me unable to stay away from you?” Max’s voice has dropped to below normal octave- vicious and thrilling at the same time.

Charles’s mouth goes very, very dry.

“And if it does?” Because Charles isn’t going to back down _now_.

“You gonna do something about it?”

And Charles loses it. _Absolutely fucking loses it._

He pushes Max against the wall, their mouths meeting and it’s like there are fireworks combusting inside him, like he’s on fire and god, there’s so, so much _heat._ He can feel the harsh lines, the razor-sharp cheekbones, the hard planes of Max’s body under his sweat-stained fireproofs. Maybe the rose water had alcohol in it because right now, he feels drunk, drunk on something sweet that’s almost a victory, drunk on closure or Max or _something_.

Max makes a sound, at the back of his throat and Charles wants to burn it to memory, because he feels like a God, and there are hands, hands all over- one tugging his hair, one gripping his ass, and he needs to get as close to Max as possible, wants to breathe him in, hands struggling with the stupid race suit and _fuck_ , Max is an excellent kisser- and he feels like he’s on the precipice of something, like he’s discovering something dangerous and powerful and _fuck, he’s half-hard_. He has to, no, he _needs_ to come up for air but Max tastes like hairpin turns and sweat _and adrenaline_ and he doesn’t ever want to stop.

Eventually, it’s Max who pulls back first but he remains there, _steady_ , Charles’s knee pressed between his thighs.

There’s a moment, as they catch their breath and Max’s eyes are shining, _ablaze_ , the hollows of his cheekbones even more pronounced from the way he’s breathing, his hair a sticky, sweaty mess.

“That was- ” Charles breaks off because he doesn’t know what the fuck it was but he knows he wants more. In the privacy of a hotel room. _Over and over and-_

“A long time coming,” Max says instead.

There’s the sound of an onslaught of footsteps and Charles jumps back, hoping he doesn’t look like he just kissed someone senseless. Max takes a sip from his water bottle, running his hand through his hair casually like the universe hasn’t just completely shifted.

It’s Lewis and he’s too wrapped up in his own euphoria to notice anything amiss. Charles manages to make conversation but he can still _taste_ Max, and god, he wants more. And then, all too soon, Max’s summons to the media pen arrive in the form of his press officer and Charles tries not to let the disappointment show on his face.

“To be continued,” Max murmurs, leaving Charles and like-

_What the fuck?_

**FIA Prize Ceremony, 2019**

He hates Paris.

“Enjoy it?” The host is asking him about his rivalry with Charles as he wraps his fingers around the Action of the Year award. _Jesus_. 

“Yeah, it’s good,” and when he sees Dilara’s face in the audience, beautiful, stunning, _too smart for him Dilara_ , he adds, “And I think it’s also good for Formula 1.”

The lights are somewhat blinding but he makes his way back to his table, trying to forget how Charles tastes, the easy to bruise skin under his collarbones, the way he had drawn out half-reverent, half-desperate whimpers from the Monégasque in his hotel room, ignoring how the hotel had been crawling with Red Bull staff. _Reckless, reckless, reckless._

“You okay?” Dilara interrupts his train of thought, _thankfully,_ and like he _really_ needs to be a better boyfriend.

“Can’t wait to get out of here,” Max mutters and when she nods in sympathetic understanding, he tries to pretend that it doesn’t make him feel _sick_.

Paris is too loud. It’s dirty and sordid and immoral and he doesn’t want to feel like he belongs here, but he does, doesn’t he?

He presses the flat of his palm onto Dilara’s thigh, his mind racing, blood rushing everywhere and he can feel _everything_.

She entangles her fingers through his, before he can do something stupid like try to _touch_ his girlfriend, try to distract himself from the roar of it all, surrounded by cameras, in the midst of this stupid awards show.

Lewis takes his first place trophy and Max doesn’t have the heart to feel envious because he really never had a shot, did he? He fucked up too many times, too many mistakes- Spa was a shit-show, Mexico should’ve been his and his first career pole feels like it was a beat too late and-

Lewis is a champion. The perfect mix of skill and finesse, the right combination of driver and car. It’s hard to be envious of that when all Max feels is staggeringly _inferior_.

So, when he gets in the town car, two glasses of champagne down, Max all but throws himself into loving the girl next to him, the hurt and frustration seeping into his kisses and maybe Dilara understands, more than anyone, because she kisses him back so tenderly, so beautifully that Max can’t wait to get her to the hotel room and fuck them into exhaustion.

“Ik hou van jou,” she comforts, her voice rough with the syllables of an unfamiliar language and he just needs all the voices in his head to stop-

 _He hates Paris_.

-x-

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very short and almost wholly inspired by my heartbreak after bahrain- charles really said oh i've given enough lestappen content this week, it's too good a week, let me make sure both max and I DNF. all that race did is give me pain and drain me emotionally.  
> originally, I wasn't going to make this a romantic thing, or as non-canon as it now reads because max is a dumb, problematic boy and I really picked the wrong driver to invest my time into sigh but here I am. all max and george stans know is paIN.  
> chapter summary is from les miserables. as always, would love your feedback, comments really keep me going!!


	6. it's not a race to the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a cocktail of thoughts through russia, germany and japan

**Russia, 2019**

_**“I wake up in the morning thinking about victory, I go to sleep thinking about victory,”**_ he finds himself telling the interviewer. It’s a little bit haughty, a little bit too close to truth. It tastes acrid on his tongue because everything from Singapore is still _raw_ , and he has spent too much of this year picking at his wounds, never letting them heal like they should and-

Then it’s just always race week and he has to put himself back together, thread by thread, piece by piece.

He can feel Sebastian’s eyes on him, sharp and beady, _too sharp_ , and Charles wonders if he has given too much. Seb is too smart, too clever for Charles to let his guard slip the way it seems to be doing these last few months. But he wants it at all. Charles is quick, q _uicker than Seb_ , a voice in his head tells him and fine, _okay_ , he’s made his fair share of mistakes this season, there’s so many eyes on him suddenly- the myth of Ferrari feels like a curse more than a blessing these days but fuck, he wants _more_. Driving the red car should be enough but Charles has always been a product of his gluttony-

“You’re too hungry,” Seb remarks later, away from the prying eyes of the media, thankfully and Charles tries to find the will to correct him. Forceful and coming up short. Seb is smart and as always, he is _right_. In a just world, Charles would be able to hate him for that.

It is not a just world. It never has been.

“That’s not a bad thing,” the defensiveness seeps through even to his own ears.

Sebastian just smiles at him like Charles has missed the whole point, entirely. And so what if he has?

“Hunger will slow you down.”

Charles doesn’t dignify him with a response and if Charles was the kind of person to let his regrets eat him alive, he wouldn't have spent every moment, every breath nursing this appetite, this need to be at the top, to feel the roar of the tifosi like they are one with him-

Seb doesn’t know shit, he tells himself. If he doesn’t want this as badly as Charles, if he’s not as _hungry_ as him, Charles will damn well find someone else to eat with.

It takes one more race in Japan for him to learn that hunger can only win you battles, not the war.

After that, he starts paying more attention to what Sebastian says.

-x-

Some days, Max wants to sink in on himself when he sees a certain Russian. It’s usually when he has a bad race, when Christian looks at him with _that_ look. Like he expected Max to know better. Like Max _should_ know better.

Or when he was at the top step in Germany, and everything was great because Max loves driving in the wet, and he capitalized perfectly on everybody’s mistakes and he didn’t make any, so has a right to feel good- but then why did he still throw up in the safety of his hotel room, all champagne and tears and _hurt_ and- Daniil had been right there, sharing that podium with him- _and_

He watches Daniil answer Natalie’s questions, and it’s something of a spectacle because the Russian is at home, at peace and he’s so well-tempered, _so much more than you_ , and Max has to look away so he can quash the voice in his head that says that.

He thinks back to how he spent all of his first year in Red Bull telling himself that he has a right to be here, and so what if his Dad was way too insistent with Helmut? Helmut picked _him_ right? Has been picking him, choosing him, despite all the fuck ups, through all the media scrutiny?

Max is Red Bull’s golden boy. He’s the future world champion. He has earned his place here. Right?

He pushed through his Dad’s mania, through his Mom picking Victoria because it would be better for Max, and _Mom, please, I don’t know how to do this without you;_ he won championship after championship, spent hours upon hours trying to become one with his kart, impressing Helmut fucking Marko, and he fought against the politics of it all, spent time apologizing to his teammate last year for things that were never his mistake- it’s not like he could’ve controlled Daniel’s retirements or pace and- he deserves to be here. He survived heartbreak, he survived his father, he survived the toxicity of Red Bull, and _still_ came out on top. Max _deserves to be here._

It still doesn’t stop the hurt blooming in his chest when Daniil basks in the glow of a good race in his home grand-prix.

-x-

Charles spends the whole week after Russia trying to keep his cool, trying to remind himself that Sebastian has been here for so, so much longer than he has, and he has brought back glory to the Ferrari name and what has Charles achieved so far? He has lost more victories than he has secured and for that, he should remain humble.

-x-

They put him right next to Max in the Thursday press conference in Suzuka and Charles spends the better part of it memorizing Max, committing every flaw, every emotion disguised in callous indifference to memory. This is his competition for the next decade, if the reports are right and they are, aren’t they?

Max was a god in Germany, winning on raw skill and Seb- god, he doesn’t even want to think about Seb because it’s all the press seems to ask about- Seb was fucking _excellent_ , climbing his way up to second from last, and Charles remembers then, how he had been jolted into shock, a _reminder_ , that his team-mate didn’t just become a four time world champion because of a fast car- and what did Charles do in Germany? Beach his Ferrari like some rookie.

He’s taken back to reality and the ESPN guy is asking about the first sector and Suzuka is a great track, yes, but Charles wonders how many more tracks on the calendar will be tainted with loss when he retires.

 _ **“… I really enjoy driving here,”**_ he says, as he describes the way you have to pursue precision here and it’s not a lie, not really. Suzuka is a fucking great track.

(Charles ignores the the voice in his head that asks him if he’s trying to convince the press or himself.)

To his right, Max begins to talk, _**“Really good combination of corners, especially in qualifying on low fuel, it’s really enjoyable. Of course, it’s more enjoyable if you have a good car balance as well but I’m counting on that. It’s always good to be here. It’s one of my favourite tracks,”**_ a pause and Charles knows what’s coming even before Max says it, **_“Is that good enough?”_**

Charles has to hold back a laugh at that because this blue eyed boy is just constantly picking fights, isn’t he? He tries not to question the bitterness that has crept into Max’s response.

 _It is. It is good enough_ , he wants to say but he doesn’t. He knows what words to say, he has someone to hear them but there are too many prying eyes here. He tries not to think about Papa. So, he just turns to Max, smiling slightly, ignoring his _traitorous_ fucking heartbeat.

And he would be lying if he doesn’t think about the smirk Max gives him for a beat too long.

The press doesn’t stop, though; the questions about team orders and Sebastian and Jesus, how much more is there left to say? And just when Charles thinks he’s managed the worst of it, they start talking about unsafe track conditions, instead and Charles tries not to be bitter.

Max makes some joke about beating Carlos in FIFA to interrupt that and for a second, Charles can breathe a little easier because Suzuka is great but god, it’s _terrifying_ and somehow, they switch back to asking about how important it is for him to stay ahead of Red Bull and Charles answers perfectly. It only strikes him, then, that perhaps Max did it for his benefit.

Almost on cue, Max looks at him, his eyes blue and questioning-

Charles doesn’t need his help but he thinks he might be glad to have it.

-x-

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took some liberty with the order of the questions in the press conference in Japan but heyooooo, it is what it is. also the Charles quote from Russia is legit, as well and I was just so blown away when he said that, goD these boys will be the end of me. the season ended and I am EMPTY. I think the my emotions with the season ending show in the chapter too, with Seb/Charles interaction and the heartbreak of Daniil prolly not having a seat next year so maybe this is a little tribute to that :(
> 
> but fuck the season ended and max winning was great and seb and charles exchanging helmets was great but now what am I supposed to do for the next 3 months? 
> 
> chapter title is song lyrics from you're somebody else by flora cash which somewhat inspired this, I guess. ill go back to longer chapters once exam szn ends because uni is kicking my ass atm. as always, comments and kudos are great and very much appreciated!


	7. red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But loving him was red  
> Oh, red  
> Burning red
> 
> or
> 
> look at how far Max and Charles come in two years and then, how quickly, they fall apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the formatting in the last bit! but the continued italics are a flashback and then the rest is present thoughts

**Summer break, 2018**

“I’m leaving.”

Max feels everything and nothing, all at once.

“What?”

“I signed with Renault. They want me. Bad.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” Max retorts and he shouldn’t. He should be better than this. He _is_ better than this.

“ _Max_.”

And he’s sick of this. The inflection that Daniel’s voice takes every time Max does or says anything that is too close for comfort to Jos. Maybe this is a good thing. And he _immediately_ resents thinking that.

“Is it because of me?”

His heart is beating so loud. Max thinks it’s a miracle that Daniel can’t hear it.

“Not entirely.”

“Helmut and Christian wanted you. What changed?”

“They still do. But come on, you’re telling me you’ve never thought about leaving?”

“No,” Max lies, part spite, part obstinacy, ~~all hurt~~ and he wishes Daniel wouldn’t look at him like he’s a stupid, stubborn 21 year old because _of course he has_.

7 retirements in one season, Max would be a fucking idiot if he hadn’t considered leaving.

“This is going to be good for me.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“This is going to be good for me, Max,” Daniel repeats, voice firm and there it is. The fear. And with a jolt, he realizes Daniel is trying to convince himself just as much as Max.

“If you say so.”

He can give Daniel that. After _everything_ , he can give him that.

“Will you miss me?” Daniel asks instead, switching back to the joking tone Max has become so accustomed to. Max wonders when exactly he stopped letting Max in like he used to. When Daniel started to feel the need to switch. To leave.

“Nah, mate. You’ll miss me, though,” because despite everything, Max loves Daniel. If he needs Max to be making light of the situation, then Max will give him that.

“Always knew you were a heartbreaker,” Daniel says, laughing and he pretends that it’s just that easy, then.

 _If only you knew_ , Max thinks.

Summer is full of heart-ache- red skies, red knuckles and red eyes.

-x-

He goes to Bali and it might be the first time in a while that he feels free. He hasn’t been doing the way he wanted to, at Sauber. And it’s so hard not to measure himself up against the dreams he dreamed with Papa.

One Q1 in Paul-Ricard, another in Silverstone and the last one in Germany. But he’s _struggling_ to be consistent. He compares himself to every previous rookie in Sauber and feels oddly inferior. Pierre is the closest thing he has to competition but he feels like an asshole comparing himself to Pierre when his best friend’s car _sucks_.

Charles wants to do better. He wants to transcend the limits of his car. Push so hard that everyone is forced to stop and _stare_.

But apparently, he is doing something right because there is a buzz. It’s nothing concrete but then, it’s just a sliver of well-timed calls, a whisper from Mattia and-

 _Fuck_.

Charles thinks he might actually get the Ferrari seat. The one that he _needs_ to get for Jules. He can’t believe that he is going to get it.

He imagines winning a world title with Ferrari and the thought is so sweet that it hurts to even think about.

So, Charles spends the summer in the water, dipping in and out of the blue, letting the pink sunsets wash over him. He feels like he’s been born anew.

He signs with Ferrari in September and gets 3 consecutive P7s before he moves on to the big boy team.

Summer is good for Charles. Summer is a baptism and a red car.

**Winter testing, Barcelona, 2020**

“Charles?” Max stops him in the paddock, the impressions of his helmet sitting high on his cheekbones.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

Max looks around quickly to see if there are any wandering eyes and upon seeing none, drags him in the direction of his motorhome.

Charles can sense his frustration. Max spun in Turn 5, just as Seb did and sometimes, Charles thinks he knows just how scared Max is of being on a decline. They’re both barely even 23 but Charles gets it.

It’s why he’s put in more laps than anyone else.

It’s a little chilly but the sun is shining down on them brightly so Charles doesn’t mind being pulled into Max’s room. Besides, Max is always warm. Before Charles can ask him what’s wrong-

Max kisses Charles angrily, and there’s a strange sort of desperation- no, not desperation because using that word to describe Max bubbles up something molten and awful and sinister in Charles- but Max is needy, right now. _Wanting_.

And then Charles finds himself, lost in the heat of the kiss- God, Max is warm and his body pressed flush against Charles’s own feels really fucking good- so his hands slide down the Dutchman’s back and then Max is tugging his hair roughly and then Charles is warm for entirely different reasons.

Max pulls back, blue eyes ablaze but Charles needs more of this so he grabs Max by the front of his fireproofs and their teeth clink a little but he doesn’t mind because Max is _red_ \- blood and guts and glory.

They collapse on the bed in a disarray of limbs and when Max feels like he has been shattered and put back together, when Max has extracted drawn out groans of his name from Charles, while he can still smell the sex in the air-

“I didn’t really want to talk,” he admits, eyes flashing.

Charles snorts, pulling on his underwear in a series of swift motions.

“Couldn’t have guessed.”

Max rolls his eyes, remaining on the tiny bed, his body coated in a light sheen of sweat despite the chilly Catalonia air. Charles feels a sharp stab of pleasure at the fact that he, Charles, has made Max look like that- undone, unravelled, satiated.

“Your apartment again next Tuesday, right?” Charles asks as he zips up his race-wear.

Max nods in agreement, watching Charles fix himself up. Ferrari’s prince, indeed.

Eventually, he drags himself to take a quick shower so that he can head back to the garage for the debrief and though Max will fervently deny it to himself later, he feels so much better.

**2 weeks to Melbourne, 2020**

Another party.

It’s strange to bump into him because from what he knows, from all the hours and minutes spent poring and obsessing over the Red Bull driver in the last few months, Max doesn’t seem like someone who’s very much into the Monaco party scene. But he’s here.

And fuck, he looks good. Despite how often Charles has been witness to the contrary, it’s always a little jarring to see him out of his Red Bull clothes, sans cap, but the fitted dark wash jeans and white henley are a game-changer. He looks _good_.

Max doesn’t notice him. Or if he does, he pretends not to. Charles can’t find it in himself to fault Max for that. The last time together didn’t leave them with anything, really.

_“You’re like a bad habit.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“I just can’t quit you. No matter how much I tell myself that this is bad. For me,” Charles had said, and God, he’s such an idiot sometimes because Max never stayed the night but he did let himself indulge in some pillow talk occasionally. Even if it ended in knifed words half the time._

Charles remembers when he wanted to get to know as much as he could about Max, wanted to breathe in his successes, his achievements, the glory of the youngest race winner ever. It’s strange to think that he’s competing with him, now. Will be competing with him for the next so many years.

How do you fight that? How do you fight destiny?

_“Is this what you call flirting?” Max had scoffed, carefully putting on his briefs, and there had been a sharpness, something like his heart, really-_

Charles shouldn’t have pushed him, not that day; Max was still reeling from the freshness of his break up with Dilara and there had been a certain edge to the Dutchman.

_“You still need me to flirt with you? After the last two months?”_

Charles should’ve fucking quit while he was ahead. But Charles rarely did what he should do.

_Max had zipped up his sweatshirt with calculated purpose, staring at Charles as he had extracted his phone and wallet from the disarray of clothes on the floor, and then, ice-cold eyes, ice-cold voice, “I don’t need anything from you.”_

Charles had felt so stupid, still thick in the lazy contentment of afternoon sex, from the way Max had groaned out his name in his Dutch accent, and Charles loved hearing how pronounced Max’s accent was when he came- and he had felt so naked, and then, he just needed to feel like he was on the offensive. Like there was power. Like this wasn’t a free-fall.

_“Didn’t seem that way when you texted me saying you want me,” Charles had bit right back, because there was a certain thrill to pushing their limits like this-_

And Max had left, his face impassive, not even bothering to respond to Charles, and Max’s fingers had been shaking as his fingers had wrapped around the door handle and even now, Charles isn’t sure if that was rage or hurt or the fact that Charles had violated their unspoken rule-

Don’t talk about the _desperation_ , the need that was a steady undercurrent in all their little hookups; how it has never been just sex, not really, not _ever_. Being with Max felt like drowning in the sea of the red Tifosi- exalted and untethered.

But Charles had felt in control, like he was dictating this, like he would’ve been able to say no to Max’s _I want you_ , something that tasted sweet on the flat of his tongue, something like power-

Charles had felt so in control.

Powerful.

Dangerous.

 _Awful_.

He watches, the bass of the music pounding in his ears, his hands tightly clutched around his beer, as Max wraps his arm around a brunette, whispering something in her ear, and then- with a pang- he really hadn’t seen Charles all this while, because Max’s blue eyes meet his own and he turns away-

Max fucking turns away, like Charles doesn’t matter, like Charles doesn’t know how Max tastes, and Charles feels red-hot anger consume him, feels it drown him because this is nothing, now. It used to be a game and this? This isn’t even a fight; in fact, it isn’t anything at all.

Powerful. Dangerous. _Awful_.

Max leaves with the girl an hour later and Charles smashes the bathroom mirror, watching the tears and bright red blood mix in the basin.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for just disappearing, I was too busy investing myself in different forms of media to cope with life but this is a meaty chapter, hopefully, even if it is very very fragmented. it was supposed to be all about the colour red and then I realized that the Taylor swift song works beautifully too lol
> 
> hope you're all doing well!! (also took a little bit of liberty with the last moment because I dont think Monaco was having parties in march last year but some artistic license is only fair, right?)
> 
> comments are gold. <3


	8. thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a litany of thursdays (max watches charles, charles watches max, the world watches them)
> 
> or
> 
> amy dunne: you think you'd be happy with a nice midwestern girl? no way, baby! i'm it.

**Thursday, Monza, 2019** ****

Max stops by the press conference on his way back to the garage. Italy is always good- the air contagious with excitement from the fans, a breather because everybody is just so focused on Ferrari. Instinctively, he looks at Charles, the bright Ferrari red juxtaposed with his pale skin. It’s easy to look at Charles. It always has been.  
  
“Question to Charles. After the race you mentioned you didn’t say a word during the race. Can you describe the state of mind while you were going for that victory?”

Max can’t place the name of the reporter but God, he’s foolish. Anthoine was _talented_. He would’ve made it to F1 and Max thinks people need to appreciate Pierre more for making it through that weekend, with the demotion and losing his best friend, and just-

Charles is answering and it’s not hard to find respect for the Monégasque, too because Charles was a force to be reckoned with.

“I had nothing to say. They were giving me the information I needed, and that’s it. I just focused on the job behind the wheel, and that’s it.”

Max has to clench his fist from the emotion that threatens to spill at that because that’s exactly what Charles did. He wonders if there’s a God and if he even really cares about Charles to mar his first victory with yet another death.

He watches on and it’s almost begrudging, the respect that seems to exist between the two Ferrari drivers. He pointedly looks away whenever Pierre speaks. Talent doesn’t always thrive in Formula 1 and looking at the bright blue of Pierre’s Toro Rosso t-shirt is a _blinding_ reminder of that.

Phil asks something about Jackie Stewart has said about first lap luxuries and Max almost scoffs out loud. That guy just _can’t_ keep his mouth shut. He’s torn between wanting to hear what Charles has to say- because between the two of them, they know all about first lap _racing incidents_ \- and like, he’s going to be late for his meeting with GP if he doesn’t head back right now.

“On my side I think I was always aware it was a dangerous sport because any time you go at that speed it will always be dangerous.”

Max doesn’t stay after that, choosing to leave almost immediately because when Charles does that- when he talks about death, the unspoken whisper of _Jules_ \- Max feels like his heart is in his throat.

**Thursday, Austin, 2019**

“For Max. Just on Lewis. He had some comments to say about you after the last race. Said he affords you more space than other drivers in fear of being torpedoed-”

That’s not even a question, Charles thinks, watching the press conference. It’s unfair, that’s what it really is. He can almost see the PR training physically kick in.

“Torpedoed? I didn’t hear that one,”Max says, buying himself valuable time to respond in a way he should, and not the way he _wants_ to.

Phil, whether purely ignorant or purely unforgiving, continues on, “Well, it was part of what he said. And I think Seb also said that he copy-and-pasted what Lewis had to say. I was wondering what your feeling is about those two comments?”

Charles snorts derisively. There’s nothing wrong with the reputation that Max has been afforded by the two world champions. It’s better to be given more space than to be considered someone who can be overtaken easily. Everybody knows that.

“Well, looking at Turns 1 and 2 in Mexico, I don’t think _that_ happened,” Max responds and Charles tries to ignore the warmth that blooms in his chest at that tone- like Max knows something the others don’t. Like he’s not going to let them in on this little secret.

And then Charles watches in fascination as Max sets up the premise and delivers the blow. Smart. Cool and so beautifully calculated that Charles has to force himself to remember how long Max has been doing this.

“From my side, yeah, it was a bit of a silly comment to make. I think I’m always a hard racer but fair. I think it’s just not correct – but, _of_ _course,_ it’s easy to have a dig at someone. From my side, it’s fine. It’s always positive when the talk about you. _That means you’re in their head._ So, for my side, I just focus on my driving.”

And that should be the end of it, really. Asked and answered, right? Except everybody seems insistent on attacking Max.

The guy from Motorlat, when called upon, asks such a stupid question that Charles wants to shake him whole to _knock_ some sense into him.

“Max, do you think Lewis and Seb are more aggressive with you than any other driver on the grid?”

What the fuck are they expecting him to say? Admit weakness and say they are? Deny it when there’s all evidence to the contrary?

Max, very obviously sick of it, says, “I don’t know. I think you should ask them that question.” There’s a tone of finality in his inflection and it shouldn’t sound so much like a warning because this is what the sport is- thick skin and fast cars- but it does. It’s almost admirable, really, Charles thinks.

Ben seems to pick up where the Motorlat guy left off, as he adjusts the mic to pose his question, “Max, it’s for you, unfortunately, again.”

He tries very hard not to feel sorry for Max. But he can’t help it. The way the press has been hounding Max this whole weekend, when really, Mexico gave them so many other things to talk about. Especially when the table is teeming with the younger drivers. None of them are going to rise to defend him. Charles sure as hell wouldn’t. But he knows if Seb or Daniel were around, they would’ve.

“Well, you’re quite topical at the moment. Do you think you’re being treated fairly by the FIA in the wake of what happened at the last race? For your honesty- your brutal honesty, about the yellow flags? And also do you think that you’re getting dug out by Lewis, by Sebastian? They don’t seem to dig anyone else out, it just seems to be you. You seem to be the centre of attention a lot of time.”

Charles audibly sighs, leaving before he has to hear Max answer. 

What a shit-show.

**Thursday, Abu Dhabi, 2019**

Max feels calm, all things considered. Abu Dhabi is such a snooze-fest that he isn’t expecting much from the weekend. A podium, maybe, if he gets off well in Turn 1.

They put him right next to Charles. _Of course._ The future of the sport, the two golden boys, etcetera. There will definitely be questions about that.

The first reporter starts with Brazil. How utterly predictable. Max thinks back to when that was him and Daniel last year. Sometimes, it shakes him how similar he and Charles can be.

He almost yells out in excitement when he hears the all too familiar voice of Walter Koster. Oh, _this is going to be good._ He looks at Charles, immediately and for a second, his heart stutters because Charles is smiling and there’s a lazy sort of contentment to him and-

“Before I start my question, I have to remind you of high praises. No doubt you have had more good races than bad ones…”

Charles’s visible confusion and bewilderment is almost endearing, as he struggles to string together and make sense of the very, very long convoluted sentences that the man has just posed to him. Max wonders if the guy is even a reporter.

“I’ve lost it,” Charles says, mid-question and Max tries hard to hold back the laughter but he bursts into it.

He tries to compose himself. _Barely_.

“… and last in Brazil, the finish,” Charles looks at Max, the way the Dutchman is so amused and it’s suddenly even harder to focus on the question when Max looks right back, looking so _light_ , “after a hard battle with your team-mate…”

“Now, my question to the pop star of Formula 1,” the reporter continues and with the exaggerated, attention-soaked gesture Max makes towards him, Charles can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed by the implications of the title.

“Kevin,” he jests, laughing, too because who the hell allowed this guy to ask questions without proofing them?

The question finally ends and it doesn’t make any more sense than it did one minute ago. Charles almost feels for the man because he seems old and fuck, Charles can be so soft sometimes, especially when this guy is saying things like he’s a polite man and he is _still_ hoping for an answer.

“Wow,” Max exclaims, next to him and he looks at Charles, yet _again_ , and suddenly, Charles doesn’t mind if this guy asks a question at every future press conference if it means having Max’s attention the way he does now.

“That was a long question. Congratulations. Kevin, you can start.”

It’s not very cute to deflect but really, he can feel Max’s knee pressing against his thigh as the Dutchman chuckles and honestly, he thinks it’s a good thing that he’s fast and good looking because he would’ve been _doomed_ , otherwise.

“I’m in trance,” Kevin says.

And then, Max puts him on the spot, in front of what feels like the whole world-

“Well, you _are_ the pop star. First of all, can you sing?” Max jests.

Charles wants to strangle him. And then kiss him. Maybe, not in that order.

“Yeah, I can sing,” and he looks at Max, yet again, and God, he needs to stop because he’s being so embarrassingly obvious- so he forces himself to actually _focus_ , “I won’t sing now but I can sing.”

There’s some more confusion and it’s a good thing it’s the last race of the season and the championships have been tied up because everybody is relaxed and laughing along. It’s good. One of the better Thursdays.

“Worst races? Five worst? Okay, that's a simple question. So…” He begins to answer and despite the novelty of his first victory, he wants to put Spa right up there, on that list. But he doesn't.

“What was the best race among the worst?” Walter Koster interrupts.

“So the top five best and the top five worst?” Charles misunderstands and Max holds back another laugh, because sometimes it’s so obvious that Charles has like _two_ braincells, at most and okay, yeah, English isn’t most people’s first language but Max is a study in immaturity, too so he lets out an amused, “Wow.”

There’s some confused back and forth, the confusion stemming mainly from the Ferrari driver next to him, and Max can smell his perfume, something sharp and rich, and then he needs to think about something else, _anything_ else-

“Wait, are we going to make it more complicated? Like this year, or in his career?” Max finds himself saying, and the whole room laughs, but Charles lets out a weird, little laugh that’s half chuckle, half happiness and that, _that_ is what Max thinks victory feels like.

Charles answers the way everybody would want him to, saying Brazil and Monaco, even though Austria and Singapore felt equally bad, if not worse. But he feels like he’s floating right now.

He looks expectantly at Max, wondering if Max will mention Japan or not, because he doesn’t think he could handle that, not when Max has looked at him the way he has in the last fifteen minutes.

And then, when nobody makes a move to press an answer from Max, “Ah, that was a question only for me?”

Max thinks Charles should be grateful that it was, like he is, because neither of them are ready to hear Max say Suzuka. Not when Charles’s thigh is warm and flush against his knee. Not when the air glimmers with something _dangerous_ , something that feels very much like hope.

“Yeah,” Max agrees.

“Oh, okay, thank you,” Charles says, his tone and smile contagious. Max _knows_ , then. Definitely not a question for him.

"Unless, Max, you’d like to offer your worst of the season, or Kevin?”

“Ah, no,” he gestures flippantly, “Save the time.”

Charles smiles.

They ask about the still-to-be decided third place and it’s as he’s speaking, that Charles realizes just how similar he and Max are.

“I think it’s always nicer than finishing fourth or fifth. But, looking back in 20 years’ time and seeing that you were third in the Championship wouldn’t really make me very happy. I think we’re all here to win and, of course, fight for the title. So, yeah, I think it would be nice after this weekend to be third but in 20 years’ time, I don’t think it will do much.”

The only place that matters is first-

And then as the press conference concludes, their eyes meet, and the way they’ve been set to sit _right next_ to each other, the way fate was written out from the instant they competed on the go-karting track, when it _really_ comes down to it, for the two of them, they’re each other’s number one competition.

The only place that has _ever_ mattered is first.

It’s just that simple.

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a relatively happier chapter! was feeling very soft about my favourite two boys, so I'm projecting, probably. questions and dialogue from the conferences are very much real and I tried my best not to take advantage of it.
> 
> (I considered typing out the canon dialogue in bold/italics like I have in the past but it just looked very ugly and messy considering how much of it is there. in fact, I might go back and change the formatting in the last few chapters. thoughts?)
> 
> very grateful for the Abu Dhabi pre race press con, here's a link to the Walter Koster question if ur in need of a laugh:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOnq4BoeXy4 
> 
> hope everybody is staying safe and somewhat happy xx


	9. anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the beginning of the 2020 season
> 
> or
> 
> a rebirth

**Austria, 2020**

He tries really, really hard to keep his cool.

It’s the first race. Lewis’s qualifying penalty. Good start. _Home turf._

It should have been his. It really should. He won here last year, for fuck’s sake. And the year before that. And he needs to stop because the team, _his team_ , is hurting, too.

What’s the point of Lee spending hours on his car, all his guys in the garage working tirelessly when the stupid car gives out from under him?

It should’ve been his.

He would’ve caught Bottas. They’re nowhere near Mercedes in race pace (they never are) but Valterri would’ve cocked it up somehow, if Max had been there to keep the pressure on. And like, all those safety cars?

It’s just so fucking unfair.

He shoots a congratulations to Lando. It’s short, sweet and _almost_ completely heartfelt.

He doesn’t want to see Charles. For the Monégasque to drag that stupid, god-awful tractor of a car to second place? _He doesn’t want to see Charles_.

-x-

Across the debrief, Alex is deflated. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he tries to recognize that he does not, has not, _ever_ , really, owned disappointment. He clings to it because the alternative- the bitterness, the temper, the quiet, deafening rage- it’s worse. How do you walk away from something that is so intrinsically part of who you are?

He doesn’t have the time to figure _that_ out because; because-

If Max is stung, Alex was _robbed_. He squeezes Alex’s shoulder and together, they try not to drown. Max tries to keep them afloat.

Helmut is furious. Understandably so. But when Helmut is angry, all chopping knives and veins under papery skin, there is no room for anyone else to feel _anything_.

So, Max spends the remainder of his already shit day comforting the garage, saying they’ll come out better next time, they’ll figure out what the issue is and fix it. They have data, tons of it and there’s a chance for redemption. Same time, same circuit, same car.

Next time _will be better_. It has to be.

How could it not when there’s a whopping zero next to the points Red Bull has, right now? But he doesn’t say that. He picks up the pieces, as he has been doing for the last so many years (good God he’s tired). He tries not to flinch at the notion of another year, another world championship fight slipping away.

~~It has never been his to even think about.~~

Christian doesn’t look him in the eye the whole time.

-x-

**_sorry about your race_ ** ****

Charles stares at the words he has typed, and retyped, and typed all over again; hesitates before sending out the text he really, actually wants to send. He doesn’t exactly say he misses Max, not in so many words but it’s pretty much what it means. Max will know that. ****

**_would’ve been nice to share a podium_ **

He goes through his phone, repeatedly, periodically, like some lovestruck teenager. Bites down the sinking feeling in his stomach when he sees the ‘read at 8:29 pm.’

He gets dinner with Seb. Calls Charlotte. Has a bit of lazy, indistinct phone sex. Goes to bed, feeling very small because this season feels like it’s going to break him.

His brain is still sleep addled and murky when he startles awake. Sticky and _thirsty_. He gulps down a whole bottle of water and throws off the crisp cotton covers. He’s just nodding off again when his phone vibrates.

**_next time_ **

He sleeps like a log, then.

**Styria, 2020**

Daniel crashes out during practice. Max puts in the best time, seventh-tenths shy of last week’s pole. His ears are ringing the whole time.

He finds out that the Australian is still getting checked out, sweet-talks the medic into letting him in. Promises to stay six feet away. Lies through his teeth and says a very worried Grace has been trying to get in touch.

“You better not crash out like that during the race,” he says, the sound wry even to his own ears but his heart is beating, pumping, so fast-

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were worried about me, Max,” Daniel says, readjusting his fireproofs.

“Shut up. You’re going to be up there in the top 5. With me. So get your shit together,” Max tells him, voice cracking.

Daniel visibly softens, even behind that horrendous mask.

“Will do, Captain.”

Max punches his arm, lightly and it’s warm, solid- Daniel is _solid_ and he lets out a breath of relief.

-x-

“I apologized. Excuses are not enough in times like this and I'm just disappointed in myself. I have done a very bad job today. I have let the team down.”

This one feels nothing like Brazil. This one is entirely on him.

But if he doesn’t gain places in the first lap, he won’t be able to gain places at all. How does he tell Mattia, his team, _the world_ that?

Seb looks at him across the garage, and the German is not angry. It’s like he sees through Charles and as he turns away to talk to Adami, it feels like he not only sees through Charles but also _past_ him.

The guys are working hard, Mattia periodically breezing through the garage like a wet chill but they’re working hard. The car is just a shit-show.

-x-

They text each other at nearly the same time.

 **_maybe we won’t share a podium this season_ ** ****

**_you deserve a better car_ **

Charles thinks about that one for the next two days.

**Hungary, 2020**

Seb is beautiful to watch in the wet. He drives like he’s trying to make up for Hockenheim ’18 every time it rains. It would be kind of fantastic if it wasn’t so goddamn heartbreaking.

It doesn’t even hurt to watch him top the second practice because sometimes, Charles feels like he needs to remember what winning, what dominating in this car felt like and if it’s not going to be him, it might as well be his team-mate. His team-mate who he crashed into last race like a menace.

He was fighting for pole positions last year, setting track records, winning hearts and races alike and now? Now, it’s a miracle if both the cars make it through to Q3.

-x-

He doesn’t know what ~~or who~~ Mattia sacrificed did but the car is almost drivable. Qualifying is a dream. A really awful fever dream where you see someone familiar and comforting and realize how happy you are to be sixth on a grid in a fucking _Ferrari_.

He’s a few tenths up on Max, as well, so all in all, he’s pleased. This is the best the car can do.

His excellent start might’ve meant something last year but Bottas gets past him on lap 10 and then he’s dropped to a measly P7. He struggles with his tires the whole time and they finally decide to pit him on lap 20. It’s not any better because he comes out way too far behind and then, like a free-fall, he’s out of the points.

He has to fight tooth and nail to get past Lando; they elbow it out for a few corners even as he comes out ahead, the whole time, he can’t stop wishing it was Max instead.

-x-

Max wonders if he looks as out of place as he feels, submerged in the all Mercedes podium.

He’s beyond thrilled to have even started the race, let alone finish second after the shitty weekend he has had.

Lee goes ballistic when he sees Max, wraps him in a half head-lock, half hug and for a second, he forgets to miss Charles, forgets how much he misses having someone equally tough and talented to actually compete with because Alex makes up places like he was meant to do it, but Alex hasn’t even completed a full season in Red Bull. He’s fresh blood and Max has had to learn the hard way- all the glitter-laden stuff is never gold.

He finds Charles loitering in the shared gap between their motorhomes.

“Hi,” Charles blinks, because of course, he had wanted Max to show up- it’s why he liked to come out here to think, to breathe, to be close without actually being _close_ , but like- Max would have been celebrating, thriving on paying back his team with a spectacular result, drowning in champagne while Charles drowned in his own loneliness. But fuck, it didn’t explain that Max was actually _here_.

“Hi,” Max agrees.

“Congratulations. You- you did good.”

“Thanks.”

He doesn’t add anything about Charles’s race, as much as Charles ~~needs~~ wants him to.

“Are you going back to Monaco?” Charles asks, powerless to the bit of hopefulness that seeps through.

“Yeah, and you?”

Charles nods, afraid that he’ll say something that he can’t take back.

Max sits down on the steps, and Charles watches the muscles in his thighs flex. He hasn’t really properly seen Max in a bit, and Max- he’s sturdier. Stronger. Unyielding.

“I saw your fight with Lando,” he breaks the silence, quietly, so quiet that Charles is half unsure if he said anything at all. It comes across as a surprise, though, because Charles wasn’t even in the points, let alone doing anything for the Dutchman to take stop and take notice. _Lando is his friend_ , he wills his mind but he can’t help it; being around Max is its own sort of powerlessness and then, he’s saying what has been on the tip of his tongue since the season started, because Max has been looking at him, looking at his races and-

“The whole time, I wished it was you, instead,” Charles admits, softly.

Max looks at him straight, meeting his eyes for the first time, and the blues of his eyes are contrasted starkly against the red flush in his cheeks- from the race or the celebrations, Charles isn’t entirely sure- but there’s an unreadable expression on his face.

It’s odd, thinks Max. You don’t know how much you want something until you have it. He can’t count the number of times, when he has let his mind wander, and he’s wondered what exactly it is between him and this beautiful, beautiful boy in the firetruck red that makes his heart skip and stutter and hurt, a staccato of want and _need-_

How there’s nothing more satisfying than besting the Monégasque, how the only person he would want to lose against is Charles, too.

It comes as naturally as breathing.

“I know,” and there’s a crescendo to the beat of his heart as he pushes out the next words, “Me too.”

Charles sits down next to him, the weight of the words washing over them.

The sky is overcast. Numbly, he thinks _it’s going to rain_.

For so long, Charles has wondered if it was just him, feeling this tug, the pull at his heartstrings, whether Silverstone was really what he thinks it was, whether nostalgia has a stronger hold on Charles than the Dutchman does.

A dangerous cocktail of emotions bubbles up in Charles’s throat, and- he had thought he was _the only one_ , the heavy and the games of the last few months getting the best of them, of him-

He watches a drop of rain hit the ground.

There _is_ a them, there is a Max and Charles, hurt and heart-

He’s not alone, then. Max is right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was listening to elegy of dunkirk from atonement while writing this. experimenting with a slightly different format and vibe- essentially short beats and sounds as the thoughts/interactions, reaching a denouement in the final scene- hope you guys enjoy it x


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